


Trade

by peaceloveandjocularity, stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24489988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peaceloveandjocularity/pseuds/peaceloveandjocularity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Margaret leaves Charles with her chore list while she flies to Tokyo.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Trade

There was no way around it. He’d been bested. At least it was by someone worthy. Margaret, unlike his sophomoric bunkmates, had a certain amount of style and pluck - and a keen awareness of her own worth. And she’d just gotten him to agree to the most ludicrous assignment he’d received during his stretch in Hell’s half acre. 

There was nothing for it, really. He had agreed to do her chores that day in return for her filling his Tokyo shopping list (it wasn’t short) after she attended a conference. This was the last chore. 

He found Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger lounging, spread legged in a chair, eyes focused on some faraway thing that only he could see. “Max?”

He came back to himself and smiled and Charles wondered if the fleeting thought he’d had was true. _Was_ Klinger the only one who ever smiled just at the sight of him? “Hiya, Major. What’s up?” 

_My blood pressure at being given inane tasks._ “I am, ah, standing in for Major Houlihan today as she was called to Tokyo. She informed me that she had,” he paused to grind his teeth, “promised to paint your nails.” 

He’d fought Margaret like hell on this one task - Corporals in the U.S. army didn’t need pretty toes! - but she had handed over her to do list for the day and there it was in ink: paint nails - K. He’d then gone to wheedling. “Can’t you do it when you get back? The two of you will have so much fun! I am not made for _girl talk,_ Margaret.”

“Charles, he’s been asking me for weeks. He’ll be heartbroken if no one shows.” She pressed the small bottle on him. “And you don’t have to entertain him. But be nice, okay? It’s not Klinger’s fault I have to leave.” 

This was true, but it _was_ Klinger’s faulty makeup, as far as Charles was concerned, that made him _desire_ painted toes in the first place. So, here he was, about to kneel at the feet of one of the most singular creatures he’d ever encountered in the name of Dewberry Bramble Blush nail polish. 

Klinger had sat up a little when he’d stated the reason for his presence. “Major? _You’re_ going to paint my nails?”

“So it would seem.” 

With a dignity that Charles didn’t know whether to find laughable or laudable, Klinger smoothed his skirt and stretched one leg out to rest on a box that was doing duty as a footstool. Thanking gods he didn’t believe in that no one but Klinger was bearing witness to this extreme blow to his dignity, Charles knelt and began applying layers of paint to another man’s toes. Knowing that if he thought of what he had been reduced to, he’d end up with a headache, he concentrated on the wet shine of the color. 

He looked up only when Klinger sighed. He paused, tiny brush in his huge hand, to regard the Corporal, who was sitting so still that he might have been having his portrait painted rather than just his toes. Klinger’s head was back, resting on the top rail of the chair. His legs were splayed and he was ragdoll limp with relaxation; Winchester guessed his heart rate wouldn’t have topped 66 bpm. He wondered if Margaret had done this before and seen the effects. If so, it made sense that she would agree to do it again; as high-strung as Klinger was, such a release was probably good for him. Seeing Klinger almost lolling (and very much lulled) made him feel a bit better about the new scuff marks on his dignity.

“I need your other foot, Cinderella, dear,” he teased. 

Klinger smiled at his tone but didn’t open his eyes, lifting his other leg onto the box to give Winchester access to his toes. An ankle bracelet shifted as he moved; Winchester flicked it. “New?”

“Uh huh. Nice of you to notice, Major.” 

It was strange. As he painted, he _kept_ noticing, eyes drawn to those thin links. And behind that notice lurked a very frightening observation: Klinger had really nice legs. Not nice-for-a-kid-Corporal-at-a-MASH nice, either, but genuine, deserving of notice, runway ready nice. Maybe even wraparound nice. He glared at the nail brush. _This pigment clearly produces potent fumes_. 

“Finis,” he announced, having applied the first coat. “How long before they dry?” 

“Ten minutes. You don’t have to do a second coat, though. I can do it later.” 

It was the out he wanted. However, he was already on his knees. Even if he was thinking dangerous things about Klinger’s dancer’s legs, he could endure ten minutes. “I will do it. Though I’ll thank you, if you mention this in your memoirs, to say it was Captain Pierce who played traveling manicurist - not I.”

“You got it.” 

He wanted to ask Klinger why this tiny treat - having his nails painted - seemed to do so very much for him. Would Klinger even know? Had he been so touch-starved that these meager attentions ignited every nerve end? If so, Winchester reflected, they were more alike than he wanted to admit. He, too, had spent most of his life without those displays of physical affection others engaged in so casually. He knew neither how to give them (the way Hawkeye fell against Hunnicutt when they shared a joke, laughter mingling as they tried to hold one another up) or to receive them (as Mulcahy did when Colonel Potter squeezed his arm after a moving sermon). But he could give Klinger a little more of this. He began a new coat, oblivious to the fact that his free hand was tracing its way up Klinger’s leg, stroking soft skin and taut muscle. 

For his part, Klinger was very aware of that touch. This was the case because, unbeknownst to the pseudo-family with which he served in Asia, Klinger _loved_ to be touched. It made him feel real in a place where rank terror too often made him feel a ghost - or, at least, a man who could be made a ghost at any time. If given the choice, he would have taken gentle touch over food; he could exist on hugs or pats or a caress - which was more than could be said for the slop turned out by the mess tent. He didn’t want to do anything to stop or endanger what Winchester was doing, so he stayed still, resisting the urge to strain after deeper touch. 

Winchester felt him tense and looked up. He was about to ask what had caused this tightening of muscles but when he looked up he was shocked to see that his hand was _underneath_ Klinger’s skirt, his fingers stroking his thigh. His inner thigh. “Oh,” he heard himself stay stupidly. 

Klinger stayed frozen, dark eyes fixed on his, a creature in a trap that knew the approaching figure was not coming to save it. He swallowed and tried to speak; nothing came out. 

“Maxwell?” He withdrew his fingers, saw him shiver. 

A quick hand clamped on his wrist and dragged it back to where it had been. His words came out in a rush, “You can keep going.” He saw Charles hesitate. “Come on, Major. Please?” 

Charles had never before been in a position to turn down someone with freshly-lacquered dewberry toes and decided he didn’t want to. He pressed his lips to Klinger’s ankle. The Corporal went positively _fluttery_ under his mouth, but Charles ignored this to kiss up the back of his calf (which necessitated ducking around and behind his leg - best to put the wraparound theory to the test), tongue flicking out to tease the skin behind his knee. 

He saw Klinger move side to side in his chair - a clear ask - but he had other stops to make. He pushed the Corporal’s skirt up without lifting his head, tongue tracing damp, curling patterns on his inner thigh. “Tease,” Klinger accused, sounding strangled. 

Charles bit him lightly and shocked himself by replying, “That’s ‘Major,’ Corporal.” 

“Major Tease,” Klinger corrected, making him huff exasperated laughter against his thigh. 

“Your nails are quite complete. Be good or I’ll leave you like this.” 

“Good is just what I’m trying to be!” 

The sheer earnestness of the statement made him chuckle again - and take pity. He maneuvered past some very lacy underwear to look up from between Klinger’s spread legs. The Corporal’s dark eyes seemed almost wet with pleading. 

Hating to lose sight of that helpless look, Charles answered it by taking him into his mouth. Klinger jerked back at first contact and his arms fastened on the chair’s supports. He didn’t start white-knuckling them, however, until Charles took him deep. 

Klinger really couldn’t help what happened next and he really hoped it didn’t count as not being good, because if Charles left now, he knew he’d never recover. When the Major swallowed to take him in, he bucked, hips rocking. In that single motion, the game shifted from Charles pleasuring him to Klinger claiming his mouth. 

The Corporal expected Charles to hold down on his hips or change the angle to reestablish the rhythm he’d begun with, but the Major clearly had a generous side, because he gave himself over instead, letting Klinger dictate what quickly became a punishing pace. Klinger was watching that wet and receptive mouth as he neared the edge. The thought _his lips are going to be brighter than my toes tomorrow_ sent him right over it. 

Seeing Charles swallow made him ache as a flare of desire swept back through a body too wrung out to handle it. Then the Major stood and guided his hand just as Klinger had guided his and Klinger silently promised to pray for Major Margaret Houlihan’s happiness every night for the rest of his life.

***

When Margaret returned from Tokyo Charles dutifully returned the bottle of nail polish. When she asked him how it had been to kneel at Klinger’s feet, however, he blushed a color that she would have thrilled to see bottled. She handed the polish back. “I think you can handle this task from here on out,” she said with a smile that knew entirely too much. When he pocketed the bottle, she laughed. Back in her tent, she opened a different shade called True Love and touched up her own toes in salute to the Corporal, pleased both that he’d found a measure of happiness in this hellish place and that he’d be too busy with Charles to ask after the poker winnings she owed him. 

End! 

  
  



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